Addiction
by GraeLiars
Summary: Six picks up an old habit in hopes of fighting off a new and all together more dangerous addiction. Holix one-shot


_Ok, so if this has 2 A/N at the start I'm sorry - my comps gone a little crazy :(_

_Not sure where this came from - its a bit of a nothing story that kinda just exploded from my head one day. Crazy how that happens huh? I know some people won't like the idea of Six smoking, but hopefully it all makes sense by the end._ _Thanks to all my lovely reviewers! I love each and every one of you - please continue to let me know what you think :)_

_Housekeeping - surprise, surprise, I am not in any way affiliated with Man of Action and therefore do not own any of their stuff (if I did the show would not be called _Generator Rex_ but rather '_Agent Six and his Undeniable Awesomeness! Plus some kid who does mechanical stuff')

_Right, well, enjoy! :)_

* * *

><p><strong>Addiction<strong>

Cigarettes.

He gave them up years ago. It was one of those habits he had developed that had been a little on the self-destructive side. Like making vendettas against very powerful people, going rogue, or slaughtering his way to his claim of 'Sixth Deadliest Man in the World'.

Yeah, it was one of those types of habits. The ones that you know will eventually kill you, but you do it anyway. Something about getting that feeling of empowerment when you know you're challenging death.

And the feeling of satisfaction for every second you're alive – knowing that you're beating it.

He takes another long draw of the little white stick held carelessly between his fingers and feels the nicotine filling his system.

He knows it's bad for him. He knows that more drugs flood his system with every one he indulges in. Every breath means more of the drug seeping into his lungs, his brain, his heart – into every fiber of his being, and he knows it's destroying all of it. It's wearing down walls of resistance until it finally gets through to penetrate the more sensitive surfaces of his body, slowly taking control and killing them off. It's taking hold of him and he's letting it.

He knows he could stop it if he wanted to. They don't pull him in like gravity as some other addicts claim. He doesn't suffer any withdrawal symptoms – he doesn't start shaking with need or start having mind-fogging hallucinations. He doesn't lose his temper; he doesn't do things he regrets. Thinking about having his next hit doesn't occupy his mind for most of his day. And he _never_ resorts to begging anyone – himself or others – to just let him have one more shot.

No, Six doesn't feel the incapacitating need to have another one of these little coffin nails – he could stop anytime he wanted to. He just doesn't want to.

And that's why cigarettes aren't a problem.

_She _is a problem.

Women and romance was one of those things that always got in the way, a profession such as his and all, so Six decided to abandon them completely. And then he joined Providence, an area he expected to be full of faceless soldiers and bug-eyed scientists.

That's what scientists are supposed to be like – all frizzy haired and crazy with hideous glasses and absolutely no personality. Anyone with a 'Dr.' in front of their names (and whole lot of other letters he didn't understand at the end of it) should be some greying, cranky old bat with a crabby attitude that talks about nothing but brain-numbing facts about nothing anyone with a life outside of a microscope cares about.

But of course _she _had to be different.

Her, with her long lean legs in her black knee-high boots. Her, with her pretty little smile and that damn infectious laugh she tries to smother when Rex does something particularly stupid. Her, with her eyes that were god damned _green_.

Really – what sort of self-respecting scientist wears boots? _Knee high _boots? And she wasn't supposed to giggle – scientists weren't supposed to find anything funny. And someone he had to work so closely with should not have eyes of that colour. It's just...they just shouldn't. In fact no woman should be able to have eyes _that_ colour green – it gave them an unfair advantage over him. And he did detest an unfair fight.

It was like everything about her was designed specifically to pull him in – make him unable to resist her. That was it. She was irresistible. Intoxicating.

_Addictive_. In every sense of the word.

Since the very first taste he knew he needed more.

The first brush of her hand – it wasn't enough.

The first smile towards him – it wasn't enough.

The first heated argument – still not enough.

So he tried to have just a little more, certain that he'd be able to stop. One kiss. That was all. He just needed one to get it out of his system; he'd stem the curiosity and the interest and he could get her out of his system. But once he tasted it – _her _ – he needed more. So he told himself it would just be one night. One night that they could then put behind them, cross it off the list. They went there, it was great, they wouldn't go back. But then he got addicted, and, just like everything else about her, once just wasn't enough.

It's _never_ enough.

He couldn't stop then and he can't stop now. He doesn't think he'll be able to any time soon either. And it terrifies him.

He knows she's bad for him. He knows that each time he's near her, the more drugs floods his system. Every moment with her means more of the drug – _her drug_ – is seeping into his lungs, his brain.

His heart.

She's getting into every fiber of his being, and he knows she's destroying all of it. She wears down his walls of resistance until she finally gets through to those deep dark areas he hasn't let anyone see before. She slowly takes control of him and kills off his defenses one by one. She's taking hold of him and he's letting her.

He feels constantly drawn to her, like he has to make a conscious effort _not_ to go towards her. When he can't have her he starts getting the symptoms. He gets agitated easily, especially by Callan and Cesar because even though she denies it, he knows that they're thinking about her – and if it's anything similar to what Six himself is thinking than they both deserve to die. Because she's _his_. And no one else's.

His dreamless sleep is disturbed by hallucinations – images of her and him together. He's always thinking about her, about the next time he can have her; have his next hit. He hasn't begged yet and is convinced he won't – _Six does not beg – _but it pains him to know that he's gotten a lot closer to doing it then he would have liked. She's weakening him and he's powerless to stop her.

He looks over from his spot on the balcony to where he hears her move in bed. This has become their spot. It's the house she lived in before she came to Providence – it's a little two-storey townhouse. It's _very_ Holiday – all decorated and filled with photos and flowers. She's done everything within her power to make this place feel and look 'homie', and it makes him realize how much she must hate being at Providence where all she gets is a plain white room and three old photographs. He thinks he'll talk to Knight about the possibility of painting personal quarters or getting something other than standard-issue furniture. He knows she'd like that. And he'd like that she likes that.

He looks back out over the suburban neighborhood beneath him as he takes another poisoned breath from his current weapon of choice. She's told him before that she doesn't know why she kept this house, but she's glad she did. He's glad she did too.

He watches her as she mutters something incoherent and rolls over to throw her arm over his side of the bed. Upon realising there isn't a body there, her arm taps around a bit while her face contorts into this little frown that makes her look all too adorable for her own good.

Wait. Did he seriously just think of her as _adorable_? Oh God, she's done more damage than he realized.

He heavily inhales all of those supposedly addictive chemicals inside the little white stick and hopes they start doing what they're supposed to very soon.

He knows he doesn't smoke them because he likes them. In fact he's convinced that there isn't a soul on this earth that actually _likes_ cigarettes; they just _need_ them. He does it because he knows they're addictive – one of the most addictive substances that he can acquire legally without anyone raising too many eyebrows. He's planning on getting addicted to them, hoping in fact. He's hoping that if he sucks down enough of these fowl tasting sticks of poison then he'll become accustomed to them and will become addicted like so many other people on the planet. He hopes that they'll become part of his system and he won't be able to stop. He hopes that thinking about his next cigarette will plague his mind all day, that he will be thinking about the next hit every waking moment.

And he's hoping most of all that if he gets addicted to these then they'll become his problem, and she won't be anymore. He hopes he'll become addicted the cigarettes so he can tell himself she doesn't mean that much to him – that cigarettes means more to him than she does. And, considering how much he likes cigarettes, this means that she doesn't mean that much to him at all.

That's the plan. And considering she's currently lying naked in the bed she just shared with him, the plan isn't going too well.

He raises the death stick to his lips begrudgingly and looks over at the woman slowly regaining consciousness. She opens one eye to find the bed empty and lets out a sigh, obviously thinking he's left already. She rubs her eyes lazily in an attempt to make them adjust to the light quicker. She continues to shift around a little, gathering the sheet closer to herself as she yawns dramatically. She opens her eyes again, this time looking around the room beyond simply the bare patch of bed beside her. Upon doing this, her gaze falls on him standing on the balcony watching her, noticing how her eyes light up a little when she looks at him.

She smiles contently to herself before bidding him good morning. He finds himself returning the gesture, his mouth twitching in such a manner than someone may interpret it to be a smile, as he bids her good morning as well. He can't help it when she looks like that after they've slept together – hair tussled, eyes bright, and her noticeably exhausted body tangled in the sheets. Given the amount she moves around in her sleep when he's not there to hold her, he's pretty sure she'd look similarly tangled and messed-up regardless, but it's not the big things that matter. It's the little things. Like the way her lips are a little bit redder than usual, and her eyes are just that little bit brighter than normal, and how she seems more relaxed and at ease. He feels a strange sense of pride within himself that he can be responsible for someone who is normally so put together looking such a mess.

She stretches in an almost feline-manner to relieve the ache in her muscles, quite aware of the effect it has on him. She looks him in the eye and he raises an eyebrow at her in an almost challenging way – if she does much more of that than she knows very well what it will lead to. She flashes him an amused smile before rolling over and gathering the sheet closer to herself.

She tucks it in around her, ensuring she has a firm hold of it before she moves, covering most of her body except for a precious expanse of skin from her collarbones upwards. He questioned her about it once – told her that there wasn't an inch of her skin he wasn't familiar with, so why the need to hide it so vigilantly? She had counted quickly, asking why, based on that logic, did he bother wearing pants?

He hadn't answered, a silent admission of her victory.

So he let her wrap herself up in her sheet like just always as he stood on the balcony wearing his green suit pants, just like always.

He looks back over the neighborhood below as Holiday stands and moves slowly around the edge of the bed to the center of the room. He tries to picture himself living somewhere like this – some townhouse in suburbia.

He can't.

To him, this is just a rendezvous point – a convenient and _unmonitored_ escape location. It's like a safe-house – a secret hideout. But it's not a home. This house isn't a home just like this neighborhood does not – and never will – provide a sense of community. Not for Six anyway.

What he can imagine is Holiday, standing on a veranda hosting a neighborhood gathering as she chats with neighbors and entertains. She could do that. She could do anything. She so badly wants to be normal. But Six knows she never will be – she's too special.

With that thought, he despondently brings the death-stick to his lips again. He hates these things. But as long as he keeps thinking things like that about her than he needs to keep lighting them up. He needs to poison his system so completely with them that he'll forget her.

The array of images of her burnt into his mind suggests that it will take many, many cigarettes for that to ever be possible.

He turns to see her standing in the middle of the room dressed only in the sheet from their – _her_ – bed, hand on her hip and an unimpressed expression on her face.

He motions for her to join him but she simply looks stubbornly at the cigarette in his hand and refuses to move.

And there it is. That's all it takes. She doesn't even need words. Just one stubborn look and he's completely forgotten about the need for these little coffin nails. He completely forgets his plan to overcome his addiction, or rather, replace it. All he can think of is how much nicer it would be to have her standing over here with him, and that little thought sparks a series of others, all of which are utterly too convincing for him to possibly deny. So he puts out the cigarette without hesitation or complaint.

She nods approvingly and shuffles over to him, clutching the blanket to her chest. She tucks herself under his arm, complains that he smells like smoke. He doesn't respond, he's too busy enjoying the way she feels huddled closer to him like this. She speaks again, this time reminding him that he promised her he'd stop. That's true. He did say he'd give them up, and he did for a long time. Before her. He didn't need them then. She'd argue that he doesn't need them _now_ but she just doesn't understand. After all, she doesn't have to put up with someone like _her_ all day. If she did then maybe she'd understand the need for a distraction.

She rests her head on his chest and closes her eyes again – he thinks she should sleep more often because she looks rightfully beautiful when she's sleeping.

_No. _He has to shut down those types of thoughts – it's thoughts like those that make him have to light up those fowl-tasting things. And he'd really rather not.

She snuggles a little further into his chest and he feels his second arm wrapping around her too. Before he notices what he's doing, he rests his head atop her own and closes his eyes as well. This is bad. Bad and very, very wrong. These sorts of things indicate personal and – God forbid – _emotional_ attachments to people, and they were things he couldn't afford. _Especially_ not with Rebecca.

_Holiday. You call her Holiday. None of this '_Rebecca' _nonsense._

She – _Holiday_ – asks him the time in a voice that suggests she doesn't care for his answer. He checks his wrist but finds his watch is absent. Right, because if he doesn't discard it before they…well…just _before_, then it gets stuck and tangled in her hair and he knows, unfortunately from previous experience, that this totally kills any mood or _drive_ they may have managed to acquire. He knows he could go and find it. But that would most probably involve letting her go. And he doesn't really want to do that. She's keeping him warm – and that's the _only _reason he doesn't want to let her go (and anyone who dares think or say otherwise will have to answer to his katanas.) So instead he looks up to find the sun's position in the sky and estimates, based on it's position relevant to their own, roughly what the time is.

He guesses it's about 4:30 and tells her so. She sighs dejectedly and starts to pull away, tells him that if they want to be back to Headquarters by curfew, and ensure he arrives back at least half an hour before her as always, then he really should be going now. He tightens his grip and pulls her against him, taking her by surprise.

He tells her that he wants to stay here a few more minutes. He's sure that they can get away with arriving back at the same time just this once.

She tries to conceal her smile as she tells him she thinks that sounds nice, but she fails horribly. He doesn't have to look at her to know she's beaming – he can hear it in her voice, feel it when she lays her head on is chest. He doesn't smile; he simply loosens his grip a little and lets himself enjoy just holding her like this for a while. He spies the packet of cigarettes out of the corner of his eye and knows that he's never going to finish them. He won't light up any others because he can finally accept that there isn't any point.

He knows he's addicted. And he knows there's no way he will ever be able to give this up.

He just can't find it within himself to care when being addicted feels this damn good.

* * *

><p><em>And there you have it! All done. I, personally, have never smoked a cigarette in my life so if Six's actions as far as having a puff go are unrealistic I apologise - you have my ignorant and stubborn little mind to blame for that one :) Anywho, you know what to do - hit that little button and tell me what you think please, i would love to know!<em>


End file.
